


House of Stone

by shosty



Series: To Build a Home [2]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Agni Kai (Avatar), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassination Attempt(s), Crying, Fire Nation Politics (Avatar), Firelord Zuko (Avatar), Gen, Hurt Zuko (Avatar), Hurt/Comfort, I wrote this and now it's your problem, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Iroh (Avatar) is a Good Uncle, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Medical Inaccuracies, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole, Post-Canon, Post-War, Vomiting, Zuko (Avatar) Needs Therapy, Zuko (Avatar)-centric, bc I’m fun like that ;), but he does get a hug! and that's a start, hand waving canon because fuck it, he just keeps making questionable decisions, let zuko sleep 2k21, look I tried to write a hurt no comfort fic and then it made me sad so here, my dual love affair with italics AND parenthesis, no beta we die like jet, pls be nice to me I’ve forgotten how to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:02:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29093919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shosty/pseuds/shosty
Summary: Somehow, he survives his first month on the throne, assassination attempts, and Agni Kais be damned. And then he survives the second.By the start of the third, Zuko thinks,I might make it to seventeen.(Somewhere, the spirits are laughing at him.)
Relationships: Fire Nation Citizen(s) & Zuko (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Minor or Background Relationship(s), The Gaang & Zuko (Avatar), Ursa & Zuko (Avatar), Ursa (Avatar)/Original Character(s)
Series: To Build a Home [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2130585
Comments: 130
Kudos: 556





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay LOOK, do I have exams that I need to be prepping for? yes. did I write this instead bc the positive response to part one made me cry happy tears? ALSO yes.  
> so here! part two to Turn to Dust and I promise there will be some comfort,,, eventually, but in the mean time, have some Iroh POV  
> enjoy! <3

When the war ends, Iroh stays in Ba Sing Se.

He’s met with scepticism from the Earth Kingdom officials when he insists that he is _retired,_ _thank you very much,_ and that while he reclaimed the city, he has no intention of taking up the mantle of the Dragon of the West again. That while his nephew might be the new Firelord, Iroh’s only aspiration is to reopen his teashop and live a simpler life, because the war has spanned a century and Iroh is so unbelievably _tired_ of war.

It’s the most difficult choice he’s ever made.

Even more difficult than the day he looked at the start of wrinkles on his hands, saw the blood underneath and decided _no more._ Even more difficult than those weeks in a cell, choosing every time to sit in stony silence while his nephew raged and cried and slowly cracked to his turned back.

It’s the most difficult choice he’s ever made because it means leaving Zuko to face the throne and the rat-vipers in court _alone._

It’s the most difficult choice because it means _staying_ while his heart screams at him to _run to his nephew and never let go._

Only—

Only, Iroh knows how Fire Nation politics work. He’s been surrounded by the court since the day he was born, and he knows _exactly_ what people will think if he does. If he stands at Zuko’s side, people will see a puppet and puppeteer, a kindly uncle who twisted his nephew into complacency. After all, Iroh tore down Ozai, what’s one more Firelord? In another life, the throne would have been his. _Why would he stay if he doesn’t want it now?_

(Never mind that he doesn’t want power, doesn’t want a crown or a nation at his fingertips. Iroh has grown up since his days as an idealistic general, as a bloodthirsty prince who looked upon the destruction of Sozin and Azulon and saw _greatness._ Iroh has not always been a good man, and for that, he will be remembered. It is his burden to bear.)

So, he settles in Ba Sing Se, smiling jovially at the regulars that begin to pour through the doors of the Jasmine Dragon once again. He makes tea, he plays Pai Sho, he smiles wistfully when people ask about Mushi’s nephew Li, saying _there are many paths out of the forest, he has simply found his own instead of following mine._

The Jasmine Dragon is thriving and that should be _enough,_ but dragons are known for their possessiveness and they do not like letting go.

(And that’s what it is, isn’t it?

Every day Iroh stays in Ba Sing Se, he is choosing to let his nephew go. His nephew, who knows cruelty, who knows war first-hand, who lost _everything_ and still rose from the ashes a better man than Iroh will ever be. His nephew who is alone, because of him. Iroh has lost one son, and now he's losing another.)

In their apartment in the upper ring, there’s an empty bed roll and cups bought in a set of two. A handful of theatre scrolls that have begun to collect dust. It’s too large for him alone and barely lived in but it’s filled with regret of his own making and painful _what ifs._

(So, if Iroh spends more time in the Jasmine Dragon, at the market, wandering the streets of Ba Sing Se and trying not to _think_ , there’s no one to judge.)

He hears whispers of the boy king, the _usurper_ and stamps down the urge to run to Caldera immediately.

He hears whispers of _a new era of peace_ and hides his smiles of pride behind trembling hands.

He hears whispers of Agni Kais and assassins and coups and feels his heart stop dead in his chest. Someone orders a cup of jasmine tea and Iroh bursts into tears at the scent of it (of _Zuko’s_ favourite tea, his poor, poor nephew, _alone_.)

“Mushi,” a customer asks with concern, “Is everything alright?”

Iroh rubs at his eyes and offers a watery smile. “Forgive me,” he says, “I believe I owe my nephew a visit.”

That night, Iroh sits in his too empty apartment and pens a letter to the Firelord.

(It’s an easy choice to make.)

\--

Somehow, he survives his first month on the throne, assassination attempts, and Agni Kais be damned. And then he survives the second.

By the start of the third, Zuko thinks, _I might make it to seventeen._

It’s a strange, unfamiliar feeling that throws him off-kilter for one terrifying, lurching moment. Because he’d been convinced, he was going to die at thirteen- flames against blistering skin in front of a complacent crowd. And then from the infection, with long days passing in blur of searing agony and fragmented moments. Before then, when Azula said _Dad’s going to kill you_ with a bloodthirsty smile, too cruel for the softness of her cheeks, he’d waited and waited and waited with chilling certainty for a fate that never came.

At fourteen, when Zuko faced his first mutiny with a dagger at his throat in the dead of night, alone in the middle of the ocean on a quest he wasn’t supposed to survive.

At sixteen, both hunting the avatar across the globe and then taking control of his father’s lightning. Failing to control Azula’s. The assignation attempts, the Agni Kais, a coup from loyalist soldiers in Caldera.

It’s strange to think _I might live_ instead of _this is how I’m going to die._

In one week, he’ll be seventeen and he’s counting down the days because seventeen is older than sixteen, one step closer to eighteen when the world will stop looking at him like a _child_.

(He’s not been a child in a long time.)

_Seven days._

In seven days, Uncle will arrive at the palace to spend the day with him, even though there’s no time for celebrations (and no money to pay for them either. Agni knows, Zuko managed the budgets of his ship at thirteen, but it's another thing to manage them for a _nation._ Ozai has wrecked the economy and it's another mess for Zuko to clean up. He never realised just how much comes down to _money._ )

Uncle's letter had been a surprise- almost lost in a flood of terse correspondences with officials from the Northern Water Tribe- but a welcome one.

Uncle writes, _I believe I need to ask your forgiveness, nephew._

He writes, _I would like to see you again, if you will let me._

(Zuko doesn’t cry with relief, staring down at his uncle’s beautifully curved calligraphy, but there’s a stinging in his eyes that there wasn’t before. His response is sent off within the hour.)

So, in seven days, Zuko will see his Uncle for the first time since that day in the White Lotus Camp where he cried on his knees and was told he was forgiven.

(And Zuko _knows_ Uncle has forgiven him, but that doesn’t mean he’s redeemed, and it doesn’t mean that he’d forgiven himself. The world certainly hasn’t.

Ending the war is easy on paper, but there’s been over a dozen assassins since the crown was placed on his head. He’s either doing too much or not enough, moving too quickly or not quick enough, lacking ambition or a boy king with power gone to his head, nothing ever quite _good enough._

The sting of inadequacy is familiar. He wonders if he should be used to it by now.)

 _Seven days_ , he tells himself when the minister of education looks at Zuko’s proposition for a complete overhaul of the curriculum in Fire Nation schools with a familiar look of fury. His fingers curl. His mouth tightens. The candles around the room flicker.

( _I challenge you to an Agni Kai_ and _I accept._ It’s a familiar song and dance.)

 _Seven days._ There’s no time to dwell after the disastrous meeting with the education minister; he needs to review the economic reports prepared by his clerks and then there’s still preparations to be done for negotiations with the Earth Kingdom dignitaries that arrive in less than two weeks.

(They’re going to be out for _blood_. And spirits help him, he cannot be caught off guard, not without defences, not without his statistics and papers, not when they’re the ones who think they’re calling the shots, not when they look at him and think _boy king. Usurper._ )

He thinks, _seven days and I make it to seventeen._

The spirits are _laughing_ at him.

\--

Iroh does not run off his ship the moment it docks, but it's close enough.

(Returning is the easiest choice he's ever made.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consistent writing style who?? ngl,,, I have mixed feelings about how this chapter turned out, but it wasn't getting any better?? so, sorry about that lmao. I've outlined the next chapter and that should be a bit longer so there's that at least!!
> 
> thanks for reading! <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, desperately needing to revise for my bio test in two days: hey u know what would be angsty ;)))  
> I have,,, not proof read this, and I'm sorry
> 
> enjoy!! <3

Zuko wakes up off balance with the unshakable feeling that something is _different_ this time.

( _Different_ as if he hasn’t got the steps down to a fine art by now, as if this isn’t his new routine. Wake up, fight, shove it down into a neat little box to keep on moving. Then do it again. Again, again, again until the world is appeased.

 _Different_ because instead of feeling a million miles away, the strings between his body and soul severed, like he’s caught in a dream until the moment the gong sounds, Zuko wakes up feeling like his skin is too tight. He's uncomfortably aware of the beating of his heart. _One, two. One, two._

Something is _different_ and it’s not a good thing.)

As Agni’s first rays cut through the darkness, Zuko prepares for the duel. A servant scrapes his hair up into a topknot, disguising the uneven lengths with clever fingers. She’s careful to avoid his eyes in the reflection, her head bowed at a respectfully as she secures his crown.

It still sets his teeth on edge to have people doing _everything_ for him again. To have people constantly _touching_ him. Touching his robes, touching his hair, touching cosmetics to the purple moon stamped under his good eye. Touching him and still being _deathly_ afraid, because they're too used to Ozai, too used to Azula, too used to royal fury and flames to be anything else.

But it’s usually different before the Agni Kais.

(It’s different when his hands shake too badly to hold the crown still. It’s different when he feels miles away and he needs the gentle touch to bring him back to his body, before facing his worst nightmare, again, again, again. He’s grateful. He hates it.

And he hates sitting in front of the spirits damned mirror, staring at melted scar tissue that tingles with phantom pains when she adjusts the bands around his biceps. Staring at the explosion of raised red skin on his chest, branching out and feathering between his ribs. Reminders that he can _lose._ Reminders that this might be the one he doesn’t win.)

Today, his skin feels too tight. Too small. Her gentle touch makes bile rise in his throat.

Today is different because the Minister of Education is not a spited old general with nothing to lose. Minister Jiro is younger, stronger, smarter and he is fighting for _something_. Under Ozai’s rule, he had been favoured. He’d had _power_. Power that Zuko strips away with every new law, every step towards an era of peace. Jiro is a cornered man with everything at stake and that makes him _dangerous_.

(Officially, he was responsible for coordinating Fire Nation schools. Unofficially, he had his fingers deep in every propaganda campaign Ozai ordered. Zuko is counting down the days until he can replace him.)

“Good luck today, your Majesty,” the servant says quietly, her cheeks colouring when his eyes snap up to meets hers in the reflection. Her gaze drops resolutely to the carpeted floor.

“Oh,” he says. ( _One, two,_ like a war drum in his chest). “Thank you—”

There’s an embarrassed pause when Zuko realises he has no idea what her name _is_ (and it makes something akin to shame dry in his mouth because she can’t be much older than he is and she’s always the one up with the dawn to prepare him for the duels.

Ozai wouldn’t care for the name of a servant, but Zuko is trying so, so hard not to be his father.)

“I’m— It’s— Minako, your Majesty.” Her cheeks blushing even redder.

“Minako,” he repeats and offers her an almost smile. “Thank you.”

His eyes catch on the scar blistered across his face and his breath shortens. Minako gently places the prayer shall around his shoulders, smoothing it down.

(It’s a familiar weight.)

“Are you alright, your Majesty?” she asks hesitantly.

Zuko exhales. ( _One, two. One, two.)_ “I will be. When this is over.”

(He will be because he has to be. He’s the _Firelord_ and there’s no space for failure, for slip ups, for weakness. He will be because in six days, Uncle arrives and Zuko makes it to seventeen. He will be alright. He doesn’t have another choice.)

“I will be,” he repeats. It sounds distant to his own ears.

Minako offers an encouraging smile and then it’s time.

( _It’s too soon_ , he doesn’t say.

 _I’m not ready. I can’t do this._ )

His blood rushes in his ears as he’s escorted by guards through the halls because ever since the last assassin attacked the palace under Agni’s light, they have been twice as cautious with him. It’s a miracle they don’t press when he insists that _no, he will not have a guard in his bedroom while he sleeps, because he will never be able to sleep with someone lurking over him._ After all, a fourth Firelord in the span of three months would be a political disaster and the Fire Nation is quickly running out of replacements.

(Zuko can’t afford to lose today. He _won’t._ )

“Nephew!”

Zuko blinks. Blinks twice and realises—

Uncle is _here_. He's _early._

Despite himself, a genuine smile splits across Zuko's face at the sight of his uncle- dressed in red robes, his beard neatly trimmed and looking so at home in the halls on the palace as if he never left. His hugs are just a tight as Zuko remembers, pushing the air from his lungs, but warm and _safe._ Zuko blinks away the sudden prickling in his eyes.

And then, Uncle is pulling back, squeezing his shoulders gently. There’s a furrow in his brow, the corners of his lips tugging into a frown. His eyes fix on the now rumpled prayer shawl.

“Nephew,” he says again, but infinitely more troubled, “Who are you fighting?”

( _One, two. One, two._ The smile slides from his face.)

“Minister Jiro,” Zuko rubs the back of his neck. “Look— I’ll speak to you afterwards, Uncle. I’m glad you’re here.”

Uncle tries for a smile. “I heard about the Agni Kais,” he says, “Why didn’t you write to me?”

And—

And that was the question, wasn’t it?

Because Uncle was happier in Ba Sing Se than he ever was in banishment with Zuko. Because if he knew, he would drop it all in a moment.

Because Zuko is meant to be the Firelord and he’s _supposed_ to be able to deal with these things on his own, like he’s _supposed_ to be capable of demilitarising a nation and ending a war, like he’s _supposed_ to be able to make decisions without invoking honour duels at every turn.

(Because Uncle _chose_ to stay away. And it stung, but Zuko has been trying so, so hard to let it go.)

“That’s not fair,” Zuko snaps, stepping back. His frustration coils in his chest so quickly it knocks him off guard. ( _One two, one two._ ) “I thought you wouldn’t want to know.”

“Nephew, I’m worried—” he tries.

Zuko exhales sharply. “ _Later.”_

It comes out harsher than he means it to and Uncle winces, but his heart is thundering in his chest with sudden anger, because Uncle _left_. He let Zuko take the crown, let the world pin a genocide on his head, let him navigate war negotiations on his own and _now_ , now, he chooses to be worried?

( _One, two, one, two, onetwo._ There’s a frantic laughter bubbling his chest and Agni be damned, he does not have _time_ for this.)

“Later,” he says again. Firmly. Straightening his spine and playing Firelord. “We will discuss this _later._ ”

For a moment, Zuko thinks he’s going to argue, but the words seem to die on his lips. Reluctantly, Uncle nods, frown still clouding his face, but the tension in Zuko’s chest uncoils just enough that he can breathe again.

(One of the guards straightens the prayer shawl before he enters the Agni Kai chamber and Zuko flinches at the careful touch.

“Good luck, your Majesty,” he says.

 _You were lucky to be born_ , a palm of flames echoes.)

He kneels with his back turned to his opponent. Focused on the marble and stone pressing into his knees, instead of the crowd’s whispers drawing silent, instead of the thundering beats of his heart, bleeding together, instead of Uncle’s frown of concern, regret, _disappointment—_

The gong sounds.

His prayer shawl hits the ground as he turns.

( _Rise and fight, Prince Zuko.)_

Uncle is in the crowd, his eyes catch on his for a moment, a split second too long. Jiro kicks a vicious arc of fire towards him and Zuko barely manages to skid out of the way. _Focus,_ he berates himself and casts Uncle from his mind.

(He will not burn for a crowd. He will never burn for a crowd ever again.)

Using the momentum, Zuko presses his palms together and calls on his inner flame to swing a blast of golden flames towards the minister. Jiro’s deflection is _perfect._ There’s no time to think before a wild firewhip snaps toward his left side ( _stand and fight)_ and then curling around his ankles when he ducks and then pulling. The ground lurches underneath Zuko’s feet and he hits the ground with a painful thud, air ripped from his lungs.

( _Onetwo Onetwo one twoone twoonetwo_ _)_

Jiro leaps forward, _smirking_. A dagger of flames flares to life in Zuko’s palm and he lunges upward, aiming for the back of Jiro’s legs. And then he’s back on his feet, turning to face his opponent, flames meeting between them and curving upwards towards the ceiling, hot and _furious,_ a bead of sweat slipping down his spine and—

A scream slips through his lips. It echoes through the chamber, guttural and pained.

( _You will learn respect and suffering will be your teacher.)_

His knees hit the floor. There’s a hot pain, throbbing and furious in his shoulder and the crowd are suddenly shouting. His ears are ringing, and Jiro goes hazy in his quickly blurring vision. A trembling hand reaches up to feel slick, hot blood dripping down his back and—

_Oh._

His fingers curl around the arrow. ( _OnetwoOnetwo one twoone twoonetwoOne)_

 _Oh,_ Zuko thinks again as red droplets splatter across white marble. _That’s not good—_

Uncle's face flashes before his eyes, saying _something_ that gets lost in the ringing of his ears—

Flames crash towards them and Uncle is gone and—

and everything goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay I CANT write action, but I tried???? I promise the comfort is coming. we are so so so close to the comfort. next chapter, I pinkie promise.  
> I feel weird about this chapter but here?? I hope you enjoyed it anyways <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick note! I've upped this from teen to mature, not because of any sexual content, just because this chapter gets a little graphic w the gore and I want to be on the safe side. also it's worth noting that I have NOT read the comics and I am taking,, a few liberties with that. 
> 
> enjoy! <3

In another lifetime, Ayumi had been the personal physician to Princess Ursa.

When she arrived as a bride-to-be, fresh from Hira'a, Ayumi was barely a year out of her apprenticeship. Really, she had been only a handful of years older than Princess Ursa herself, but she’d been horrified at how _young_ she seemed at just shy of twenty years old, thrust into a whole new way of life. Ayumi’s heart twinged with sympathy. In the privacy of their practise rooms, the older healers- all children of nobles and minor courtiers- had sneered down at her. A poor, young girl set to marry the Firelord’s second born, _almost_ as bad as the prodigious healer born of no-name peasants that they worked alongside. It had been a deliberate snub to them _both_ that Ayumi was assigned to the new princess.

So, Ayumi was there on the eve of Ursa’s wedding with a specially prepared cream for her face and a soothing, medicinal brew to calm her nerves. She was there the night after when Ursa appeared at her door, requesting something to help her sleep. She was there for every cough, every scrape and bruise, and she was there whenever Ursa missed the simplicity of her home because Ayumi was one of the few in the palace who understood.

(Ursa had been a master herbalist in her own right, and Ayumi had laughed when she realised that _the_ _princess_ could brew most medicinal brews better than _the healer_.)

Ayumi had held Ursa’s hand and led her through the difficult birth of her son, a boy born under the full moon but with eyes like golden suns. Two years later when Princess Azula was born on the summer solstice, Ayumi had been the one to wash to baby and place her in Ursa’s tired arms.

Over those eleven years, she’d been Ursa’s personal physician. Ayumi liked to think had been friends too.

(In another lifetime, Ayumi dreamed of running away. Of sweeping Princess Ursa off her feet. Of taking her two children, who were growing up too fast, and Ayumi’s son, far, far away from the spirits damned place.

She’d said as much once, wrapping bandages around a flaming handprint on Ursa’s wrist, tears prickling in her eyes for the first time since her husband died.

Ursa had just smiled her sad, tired smile. Touched Ayumi’s hand gently and said, _in another lifetime, I would have let you.)_

Her burn salves improved tremendously over those eleven years and so did her ability to stop asking questions.

(In another lifetime, Ayumi stood by and watched as Ursa _crumbled_.)

And then she _vanished_ , the same day after Prince Lu Ten was declared dead, the same night that Firelord Azulon passed away. The day before Firelord Ozai was crowned.

Ayumi had cried for her.

(The new Firelord had not.)

After that, she’d had no choice but to disappear for a while. To let herself blend back in with the other healers, furious and terrified and _waiting_ to be called for an interrogation with the Firelord about his absentee wife, but the call never came. Her fear stilled but her anger did not.

Two years later, she’d used her burn salves again on the face of a soon-to-be-banished Prince, still only a boy and younger than Ayumi’s son, and felt her anger surge to the surface in a furious moment.

(He’d been a small baby. Somehow, he looked smaller now with his half-shaved head and a face full of bandages. Ayumi’s hands only started to shake when she stood back, furious tears stinging in her eyes because she’d failed to save Ursa and now she’d failed to save her son too.)

The Firelord never came to visit his son, and as the leading healer, it had been her _job_ to give him the report that Zuko would live, because soon to be banished or not, by Ozai’s hand or not, the prince had still been a member of the royal family.

To this day, Ayumi remembers the vitriol that slipped into her tone and laced her words with acid, too full of fury for Ursa, for Zuko, for her husband killed in an endless war, when she said, “Your _son_ will live.”

His face had contorted with an expression caught between a snarl and disgust. And she remembers the cruel smile on the Firelord’s lips as he carelessly said, “Your son is around the enlistment age, isn’t he, Healer Ayumi? You’d do well to remember your place.”

She remembers nearly vomiting all over the throne room floors, her heart beating in her chest, stuttering out apologies and excuses. She remembers her burning anger leaving her _cold_. She remembers his amusement at watching her fall to pieces and then—

“Dismissed.”

(Her son—

He had been _fifteen_. He didn’t live to see sixteen.)

And now, after twenty years walking these halls, she’s _still_ working at the palace (because Ozai remembered to get her son killed at war, but he didn’t remember to fire her. Or he chose not to, knowing he had taken everything and there was _nothing_ Ayumi could do.)

Only now, she’s the personal physician to Ursa’s son, who at sixteen years old is the _Firelord._

Sixteen years old and in her practise room every other day to be checked for burns after each Agni Kai. Sixteen years old, delirious, feverish and throwing up, because this time, the guards missed the poison slipped in his drink. Sixteen years old and bleeding all over her operating table with an Agni-damned _arrow_ jutting out of his shoulder.

Ayumi doesn’t ask what happened because she knows better than asking too many questions, instead focusing on calming her racing heart. Prince Iroh hovers impatiently behind her, face set in stone as she sprays disinfectant onto her hands and arms, as she pulls on her gloves and covers her mouth and nose with a mask.

“If you’re going to stay in here,” she says through gritted teeth as she inspects the bleeding mess of Zuko’s back. “Do the same. I’m going to need someone to hold him down.”

 _The Dragon of the West_ nods (and _Agni_ , if Ayumi had the time for it, she would be shaking in her boots, but she _can’t_ , not with Ursa’s son bleeding out furiously, not with a boy of sixteen blanched of colour, not when she has a patient. Because Ayumi is a healer before she is anything else and she always has been.)

“This isn’t going to be pretty,” she says, a little softer this time. Prince Iroh’s face is almost as pale as his nephew’s and Ayumi suddenly remembers that he has lost a son once before too.

His tone is fierce when he says, “Tell me what I need to do.”

So Ayumi does.

\--

When it’s over, the healer strips off her gloves and gently squeezes his shoulder.

“There’s nothing you can do now, your Highness,” she says, but Iroh—

Iroh can’t look away.

(Because now he’s out of the operating room and into a private room in the infirmary, Zuko looks _small_. He’s blanched as white as the bandages wrapped around his chest and drowning in the thick wall of pillows he’s propped up against, and all Iroh can think about is the sheer amount of _blood_ on Zuko, on the floors of the Agni Kai chamber, on his fist when Minister Jiro had stepped forward as if to continue the fight when his nephew was bleeding out.

The guards manage to apprehend the assassin, scaling down the side of the palace wall, bow slung over his back. A trail of blood follows him down to the dungeon. Later, Iroh will do what needs to be done but now—

Now, Zuko need him. His nephew needs him. Everything else can _wait_.)

The healer presses something warm into his hand, the floral smell bringing him back into his body. “Drink this,” she orders, and then tacks on the end, “your Highness.”

Iroh almost cracks a smile, before his eyes catch on the blistering red scar poking through the bandages.

 _How many times,_ he wants to plead to the spirits, _do you have to make my nephew suffer?_

_How many more times I can watch him get hurt?_

He sips his tea and immediately pulls a face. The healer doesn’t miss it.

“It’s good for you,” she says, huffing a laugh. “Especially after a surgery, so drink up. Your Highness.”

The second sip is marginally better. He tears his eyes away from his nephew and _looks_ properly for the first time at the woman, who less than an hour ago held Zuko’s life in her steady hands. She’s painfully familiar.

“You cared for him after—” his throat closes arounds the words. “You saved his life after the burn and you have saved his life today,” Iroh says, voice thick and wobblier than he cares to admit, “I’m sorry to say I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s my job,” she says. The words are weighted with something heavier, but she cracks a slight smile. “It’s Ayumi. Your Highness.”

Iroh places his cup down and grabs her hand. “Thank you,” he says, eyes prickling with emotion. “Thank you, Ayumi.”

Healer Ayumi tiredly nods and squeezes his shoulder gently. “I can have a cot set up in here for you,” she offers. “He’s strong. Your nephew _will_ pull through, but I understand if you want to stay. I’ll be staying close for the next few days.”

“Thank you,” he says again.

The words aren’t enough, can’t be enough, will _never_ be enough. Because Iroh could have easily lost another son tonight. Because he doesn’t think he can survive that grief again.

Healer Ayumi’s smile is slight, but Iroh thinks she understands.

\--

“ _You will learn respect and suffering will be your teacher.”_

Only this time, the hand is curling around his shoulder, grip tight and crushing as skin blisters and burns away under a flaming palm. Fingers digging through dripping flesh and hitting bone. Burning, burning, _burning_ right under his nose. The hot pain in his shoulder agonising, unending, heart pounding in his ears, bile in his throat—

Zuko claws at his shoulder and _screams_.

\--

Iroh startles from sleep at the scream.

Healer Ayumi is rushing into the room before Iroh can even open his mouth, stripping back the sheets to wrestle Zuko’s desperate hands away from his shoulder. His nephew makes a guttural, pained noise, breaths ragged. Blood leaks through the stark white of the bandages, sweat forming a sheen on his pale face.

“His fever has risen. I need cold water,” she says through gritted teeth and then snaps as if he’s one of her apprentices, “Now!”

Iroh doesn’t argue. He doesn’t think he’s moved this quickly since he was a younger man, hearting pounding in his chest.

“I need you to keep his hands away from his shoulder again,” Ayumi orders, the moment he steps back through the door. Her jaw is clenched tightly. There are splashes of blood on her arms. “ _Agni_ , he’s tore his stitches.”

Iroh prays to the spirits as he holds his nephew down again as Ayumi forces an anaesthetic brew down his throat. He prays, and he prays, and he prays.

_Do not take him from me, do not take him from me, do not take him from me._

\--

Ayumi can’t force herself to leave after salvaging the stitches.

So, she stays. She presses swathes of damp cloth to the Firelord’s forehead. She sends for a meal that she splits in silence with a prince.

(In another lifetime, Ayumi had wanted to run away, taking Ursa, Zuko, Azula and her son away with her. She wishes to Agni that she had.)

“One of the first laws he passed,” Ayumi says and she’s surprised when her voice is steady even as her heart thumps violently in her chest, “was to decriminalise same sex marriage.” Prince Iroh’s head jerks up to stare at her, but she keeps her focus on wringing the cloth, on the cool water against her hands. “I married my husband because it was safer that way for both of us. We had a son together to keep up appearances, and we were as happy as we could be.”

“I’m telling you this,” she continues, finally looking up to firmly meet Iroh’s gaze, “because Firelord Zuko has given people _hope_. It’s not about just ending the war- he’s brought families back together; he’s given people the right to new ones. He is one of the best things that has happened to this Nation, but,” Ayumi drags in a sharp breath, “He’s sixteen, your Highness. Every other day he is in this room being checked after another spirits damned Agni Kai and it cannot go on like this.”

Prince Iroh looks at her levelly, brows furrowing together. “What are you asking of me?” he says eventually.

“He’s given people hope,” Ayumi repeats, digging her nails into the palm of her hands to stop the shaking. “But— He needs to _live_. Firelord Zuko can’t go on like this. With the Agni Kais, with the assassination attempts, with negotiating the war.”

She remembers her burning anger leaving her cold and the bile in her throat as she begs for her son in front of the same crown the boy in front of her now wears, and she’s _waiting_ for the sharp smile on Prince Iroh’s face, for his brother’s laughter and—

“I know,” he says instead. Heavily and pained. “I know. I have not been the uncle he should have been, but I will try to be.”

 _Thank you_ she doesn’t say.

(In another lifetime, she watched Princess Ursa crumble. In this one, she will not let Ursa’s son do the same.)

“Good,” Ayumi says and her voice cracks. “I worry about him.”

And—

Prince Iroh hugs her. It’s warm and tight and _safe_ and it makes Ayumi feel like a child instead of the thirty-nine-year-old woman that she is. It’s a gross crossing of boundaries between royalty and commoners that _should_ set alarm bells ringing about her impending banishment, but her arms wrap back around him, and she thinks that neither of them really minds.

\--

The dawn comes and Zuko’s fever breaks under Agni’s first light.

Iroh sends a quiet prayer of thanks to the spirits and cries with relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayumi says gay rights. that it, that's the chapter.
> 
> but also hOO boy, this chapter did NOT go the way it was supposed to. at all. and I am so sorry for my inconsistent writing style, but I hope you still liked it??? it was supposed to be more plot and then Ayumi hijacked it so uh,, sorry lmao. on the bright side!! this does mean you're getting an extra chapter so there is that at least 
> 
> thanks for reading! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think?? we've finally made it to the comfort??? you can have this chapter early bc I'm tired, it's not getting any better and vodka proof read this lmao.  
> also as an apology for ayumi hijacking last chapter, this one is ENTIRELY zuko's POV so enjoy!! <3

Zuko comes back to his body in fragments.

A gentle, wrinkled hand brushing hair back from his forehead. Someone pressing warm tea to his lips. A kind, rumbling voice and meaningless words that wash over him. _Uncle_ , Zuko thinks. The smell of bleached bandages. A dull throbbing in his right shoulder, and an ache settled in his muscles that seeps into his bones. When Zuko cracks his eyes open, his vision is hazy through his eyelashes and all he sees is white.

 _White_ and not the rich, red canopies of his bed in the Firelord’s chambers, not the grey, metal sheets of the _Wani's_ ceiling, not the open skies of the Earth Kingdom. The starch white of the infirmary, which means—

He remembers—

(Pain- hot, throbbing and _furious_ in his shoulder and the sudden shouts of the crowd. His ears ringing, vision hazy _._ Jiro—)

 _Jiro,_ Zuko thinks, sitting up abruptly, nausea rolling in his stomach. Spirits _, Jiro._ There’s a tearing pain in his shoulder, sharp and sudden, but it doesn’t _matter_ because-

Zuko had failed.

He failed.

(In the Agni Kai chamber, he had stood against Minister Jiro to fight and Zuko had lost. In front of a crowd, he had lost and he must have lost because he’s in the infirmary and if he lost— if he _has_ lost, that means that he _failed._

Because the Agni Kais are never about the fight. They’re about his father, they’re about the war, they are a challenge to _him_. They say: _the crown weighs on your head and it is crushing you._

They say: _stand and fight for your stolen throne, boy king._

The Agni Kais have never been about honour, not for him. They are about humiliation. And Agni damn it, he has been _humiliated_.)

Zuko remembers the stares of the crowd, their eyes burning into him, and he remembers _falling_ , the echo of his knees against marble and the way the spectators _erupted_. He feels sick and there’s a bucket pushed underneath him, and the bile and the _shame_ burn in his throat.

Uncle’s words are lost in a ringing echo of _he failed, he failed, he failed._

Hands carefully push him back into the mountain of pillows and Uncle says, “Breathe with me, nephew.”

 _Right_. He can— He can do that. It brings him back to being thirteen and desperately trying not to be afraid of every flickering candle and the fire in his veins. They’ve done this before. There’s a strange comfort to it as he breaths in, breaths out, and notes the ragged quality of his breath. He breathes in, breathes out and feels his heart settle into a steadier rhythm.

( _Onetwo One two. One, two. One, two_.)

Uncle offers him a comforting smile. There are purple bruises under his red-lined eyes, but he says quietly, “You’re okay, nephew.”

“Jiro—” Zuko manages. His voice feels rougher than usual, his thoughts still cloudy and fragmented. “What happened with Minister Jiro?”

His uncle’s smile tightens into a firm line and for a moment, Zuko wonders if he’s angry. If him losing the Agni Kai is enough to finally exhaust Uncle’s limitless patience. If he’s _disappointed._ His heartrate spikes again, but Uncle just squeezes his good shoulder gently.

“Minister Jiro,” Uncle says, and despite the mild tone of his voice, there’s fire in his eyes, a flash of the Dragon’s claws, “Has been arrested for treason. I imagine he is currently facing a lifetime sentence at the Boiling Rock. After all, conspiring to assassinate the Firelord is a grievous offence.”

“Oh,” Zuko says. And then, weakly: “That’s— that’s good?”

Uncle’s expression crumples in on itself and then there’s a pair of warm, _safe_ arms around him, gentle to not aggravate the throbbing pain in his right shoulder. _He’s crying_ , an absent part of his brain notes. They’re _both_ crying and Zuko is clinging onto Uncle’s robes like a _child._

Because for the second time in his life, he had fallen to his knees in that spirits-dammed chamber. For the second time, he had nearly faced his death in front of a crowd. It had been six days until his birthday and Zuko had been _convinced_ that this time he was going to live.

(He had thought, _I might make it to seventeen_ and the spirits had _laughed_.)

“Of course, it’s good, Zuko,” Uncle says. His voice is thick with heavy emotion and he sniffles to hold back more tears, “I was so _scared_ I was going to lose you.”

Zuko’s grip on his robe loosens, the fabric in his fist going slack. His face burns. “I’m— sorry.”

Uncle stills and then pulls back. “My dear nephew, whatever _for_?”

 _Because I failed,_ he doesn’t say. The words stick in his throat like shards of glass.

Because Uncle is supposed to be in Ba Sing Se, drinking tea and playing Pai Sho, not sitting in the infirmary watching over Zuko. Because Uncle thinks of him as a son and Zuko nearly died in that chamber in front of him. Because he’s drowning in letters and negotiations and Agni Kais and Zuko is _tired_ of swimming.

“I’m not a good Firelord,” the words tear out of him. It leaves a hollow pain in his chest and his eyes are prickling with tears, fixing his gaze on the stark white sheets. “I’m not a good Firelord and I have _no idea_ what I’m doing. If I was— people would stop asking me to fight all the Agni-damned time and—”

“Oh, nephew,” Uncle says as if his heart has been split in two. And again, “Oh, nephew.”

“Why did you let me take the crown?” Zuko demands, his voice rising hysterically. His shoulders are shaking with supressed sobs that threaten to rip his ribs apart. His words are shards of glass, leaving something bitter and bloody in his mouth. “Why did you have to _leave_? I can’t— I’m sorry but I can’t do this. I’m _not_ a good Firelord.”

“You are,” Uncle whispers. “You _are,_ but I should never have asked you to be.”

And that—

What exactly is he supposed to do with _that_? He says as much.

(Zuko doesn’t say, _I don’t know what you want from me._

He doesn’t say how he let the vultures in court tear him apart and Uncle saying that now, means that it was all for _nothing_. He offered himself up as a scapegoat all for Uncle to shove it back in his face when he says _I should never have asked you to take the crown_.

 _No, you shouldn’t have_ , Zuko wants to scream. He doesn’t.

He doesn’t need to when it’s written on his face.)

Uncle looks so _pained_ that shame curls in his stomach again, blending with the anger, with the hollowness, with the exhaustion that has made its home in his bones and Zuko can’t quite bring himself to care anymore. _Agni,_ he’s so tired. There’s going to be a wall of papers waiting on his desk as soon as he gets out of the infirmary and out from under Healer Ayumi’s owl-cat eyes.

“It doesn’t matter,” Zuko says. His voice falls flat to his own ears. “I just—I don’t care.”

“No,” Uncle says sharply and Zuko flinches. More softly he repeats, “Nephew, I will not let you kill yourself like this. I _cannot_ let you do this to yourself—”

“I’m the Firelord!” Zuko snaps, “You can’t— You don’t get to tell me what to do!”

Uncle doesn’t shout. He doesn’t even flinch at the raised tone because he’s used to Zuko’s anger from those years at sea when he’d been desperate- so, so desperate to go _home_ that everything else was lost to his fury. The persistent calmness still somehow manages to make him angrier, nearly four years later.

(Because Zuko knows _anger_. He knows sharp words and cruel rebuttals and love in the form of a palm full of flames and a fist full of lighting.

But this? The waiting and silence and calmness sets him on _edge_ because he never knows where the breaking point will be. He’s waiting, always waiting for the moment that the warmth finally _burns_.)

“And I’m your uncle,” he says, his voice rawer than Zuko has ever heard it, “Your uncle who loves you very, very much. I have made mistakes. I made a mistake letting you take the throne, and I cannot apologise enough for that, Zuko.”

Zuko’s mouth goes dry and Uncle continues, “I can only hope that you will forgive me for that. But I am _begging_ you, do not be so quick to throw your life away. You are so precious to me and I want you to _live_ , Zuko. What you are doing now is not _living_.”

Uncle takes him into his arms and Zuko—

Zuko _shatters._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)))


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last chapter!! we made it! I hope I did the rest of this fic justice w this chapter and that you like it <3

When the tears run out, Zuko is left feeling dry and hollow. Tired. _Agni_ , he’s so tired.

Uncle is going to step up as regent and it’s a relief.

The announcement will be made the next morning. Zuko signs papers that his eyes read but his brain refuses to process. A week ago, the thought would have made him nauseous, would have left with fear squeezing his throat, would have left him reeling with the _what ifs_ and potential consequences of not _knowing_ exactly what he’s agreeing to. But now—

Now, he’s just exhausted. He is _exhausted_ and he trusts Uncle not to lie about what’s on the paper.

A week ago, he would have been worried sick about the way people would react. His generals had hissed that he was too young to lead. His advisors had whispered that he was too weak for the weight of the crown. And they were _right._ Spirits damn them, they were right. He might have cried again if he had anything left in him other than exhaustion that's seeping into his bones.

( _No,_ Uncle corrects, _they made it impossible for you to handle. They never wanted you to succeed, nephew._

Zuko thinks he’s trying to make a point, because Uncle is using his _wise proverb_ tone, but Zuko is just— too tired to try and pick it out. He stares and he nods. Uncle just pats his shoulder gently.)

 _Technically_ , Zuko is still the Firelord, but until he’s _recovered_ — and _recovered from_ _what?_ he wants to scream. _From the arrow or from his failure?_ —until he’s recovered, Uncle is the one making the decisions, signing the papers and sitting on the throne. With Uncle as the regent, Zuko doesn’t really have to do _anything_.

Which should be easy because all he wants to do is _sleep_. It should be easy, so he lies in his bed in the infirmary and stares at the white ceiling until his eyelids ache.

(It’s not easy.

There’s something restless and anxious itching under his skin, screaming at him to get _up_ and get to work, maybe to beg Uncle to burn the papers and pretend today never happened. Screaming that there’s no time for him to pick up all the pieces of himself, but there’s still time to stop things from getting out of hand.)

Healer Ayumi arrives not long after Uncle leaves, only to find him trying to pull a shirt over his head with gritted teeth because he’s exhausted to the bone, but he can’t just lie there being useless and even though his shoulder hurts, everything else hurts too, he’s had _worse_ —

She pulls the shirt from his hands, puts her hands on her hips and says firmly, “Get back into bed this _instant_. Your Majesty.”

It’s not a request and Ozai would have never stood for the disrespect, but Zuko isn’t Ozai and he’s not Azula. He doesn’t _want_ to be them, not anymore, but Zuko isn’t even Uncle, with his quiet commanding presence and the one who now holds the power as Regent Firelord. It’s already too late to take back his choice even if he wanted to. He doesn’t know what he wants anymore.

Zuko gets back into bed.

Ayumi doesn’t scold him when she unpicks his stitches for what is apparently the _second_ time, but her lips pinch into a firm line. Her hands are warm and steady when she rubs salve that _stings_ but cools the inflamed wound.

“I’m going to have to cauterise this if you keep ripping your stitches. You’re lucky it hasn’t got infected,” she grumbles lightly, tying off the fresh bandages.

( _You were lucky to be born_ , the fire echoes.

Lucky in that whatever hits him is _never quite enough_ to kill him. Lucky in that he survives, and he keeps on surviving. Lightning strikes the same place twice and _still_ , Zuko keeps on going. He can survive this. He has to because there’s not another option.)

“Sorry,” Zuko says.

She doesn’t say _I don’t believe you_.

Ayumi just raises a semi-amused eyebrow and his cheeks flush.

“I was—I was bored staying in bed,” Zuko defends, heat rising in his face under her scrutiny. He adds quietly, “I just wanted to feel useful now that—”

 _Now that I’m not the Firelord_ , he doesn’t say. Her eyes soften.

“You can be useful by _healing_ ,” Ayumi says more gently, and then tacks on the end, “Your Majesty.”

Zuko exhales a short laugh. “Don’t,” he says. “Just— You’ve known me since I was a _baby_. Just call me Zuko.”

It’s a desperate grasp for normality- or what had become his normality anyways. The formality of the palace has become smothering in a way it never used to be at thirteen.

(He wonders if he’s too used to the Wani and walking the tightrope between mutiny and lack of control. If he spent too long in the Earth Kingdom to rule the Fire Nation. If he spent too long following others to ever be able to lead.)

Ayumi smiles and simply says, “Okay.”

And then: “If you want to be useful, I have a few jobs you can help me with. Zuko.”

 _Jobs_ turns out to be preparing herbs to be dried for one of her creams. She sits cross legged on the bed with him, a bag of plants he doesn’t recognise between them, and patiently shows him to separate the leaves from the stems with a simple, clean movement.

(He ruins the first one and the second and then the third too. Ayumi assesses the fourth, smiles and says _good work._

It makes something warm flicker in his chest.)

After that, it’s mind numbingly easy, but Ayumi keeps up a steady stream of one-sided conversation that he lets wash over him. When he’s halfway through the bag, his hand slips, accidentally shredding the stem; Zuko stares at the broken herb in his hand for a long moment.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” Zuko says and it feels like a confession.

He’s not talking about the herb, and Ayumi _knows_ because she reaches across the bed to grab his hand, still clutching the ruined stem. She squeezes it gently and something sharp pricks in his eyes. “Now,” she says, “You get to decide. What do you _want_ to do?”

_What do you want to do? What do you want to do? What do you want to do?_

What _does_ he want now that the war is over? Now that he doesn’t have a nation to rule and negotiations to oversee? What does Zuko _want?_

“I—” the words are heavy and clumsy on his tongue. “I want to find my mom.”

“Princess Ursa?” Ayumi freezes, her hand going deadly still against his. _They were close,_ he half-remembers; fragments of memories of Ayumi are dotted throughout his childhood. Her shoulders have gone tense. And then, she says quietly, looking ten years older, “Okay.”

“She’s alive,” Zuko says and he’s not entirely sure why he’s telling _Ayumi_ this first out of everyone, but she’s staring at him with wide eyes and it's like a dam had been broken in his mind. The words won’t stop pouring out of him. “Fath- Ozai told me and I don’t think he was lying. Not this time.”

“Okay,” Ayumi says again, gently patting his wrist. _She believes you,_ a _relieved_ part of his brain notes and his eyes threaten to start prickling again. After a moment, Ayumi offers, “She’s from Hira'a. That might be a good place to start.”

“I didn’t know that,” his throat squeezes around the words. _Thank you,_ he doesn't say.

Ayumi smiles, bittersweet. “Not many did.”

After that, they fall into companionable silence as if she hasn’t just offered him the closest thing to hope he’s had in months. By the time the bag is emptied, his fingertips are etched with green and have a sharp grassy smell. He’s tired again, but not hollow.

“Get some rest, Zuko,” Ayumi says, and he does.

(It’s easier this time.)

\--

It’s three days until his birthday and Ayumi has finally given him permission to return to his own chambers when a sky bison lands in his courtyard. Through the window, he can see four familiar figures in the saddle and something light and bubbly rises in his chest. He ignores the pulling in his shoulder and the shouts of the guards and he _runs._

The sunlight feels good on his skin and there’s a ridiculously large smile on his face when Toph barrels into him, her hug knocking the air out of his lungs. Aang airbends his way down from Appa’s back, a bright splash of yellow amongst the blue sky and red buildings. Sokka waves from the saddle.

(He remembers his anger at them leaving, at them defeating his father and throwing him to the vultures, but the moment he sees them _here_ , without him needing to ask, without him telling them to come to the palace, it evaporates. Toph clings to him and Zuko just feels _relieved_.)

 _I missed you,_ he doesn’t say.

Instead, a little breathlessly he asks, “What are you doing here?”

“We _were_ going to show up for your birthday,” Toph huffs, punching his arm affectionately. It’s his good shoulder and considerably lighter than usual, but it still sends a jolt of pain through the wound. Her voice wavers slightly when she says, “And then apparently you got _shot_. What the hell, Sparky?”

 _What the hell,_ he thinks, _sums it up quite nicely_.

“It’s been a few long months,” Zuko defends weakly.

Toph snorts derisively. “I’ll say. What’s this about Uncle becoming regent?”

“Ah.” His mouth goes dry and his heart skips a telling beat. “It’s a long story.”

“We have time, Sparky,” she says, and then grins. “So, I know he’s busy as the stand-in Firelord, but how about some of Uncle’s tea?”

Behind her, Katara has her arms folded and an unreadable expression on her face. And—

Zuko is more than a little worried about _that_ conversation, but he doesn’t want to argue with his friends the moment that they arrive, and he _really_ doesn’t want to argue in the courtyard, in front of the dozen guards that follow him the moment he steps outside his bedroom.

( _It’s for your own safety,_ Uncle had promised, but Zuko hates the feeling of them breathing down his neck, hates the eyes watching him.

They don’t make him feel safer, but until his shoulder is healed enough to firebend or carry his swords again, he doesn’t think anything will. Except _—_ except maybe, having his friends here again. Even if they are a little angry with him, even if he’s a little angry with them, they have his back. They always have.

It’s a relief.)

“I’ll see about the tea,” Zuko says.

Sokka slides up to him as Zuko leads them into the palace. “I can’t believe someone tried to kill you with a bow and arrow,” he says, shaking his head, “I suppose it was worth a shot.”

Zuko nods and then _—_ _wait—_

“That’s _awful,_ ” Zuko says but he’s laughing. It catches him off guard and hurts his shoulder— it’s not even that funny, Agni _damnit_ — but it’s the first time he’s laughed properly months and suddenly he can’t stop. Sokka grins, looking so proud of himself and Zuko laughs harder. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“We’ve missed you too, buddy,” Sokka says, smile softening. He nudges Zuko with his elbow, “I’m glad you didn’t die.”

Zuko huffs a quieter laugh. His cheeks flush slightly. “Yeah. Me too.”

And he thinks that this time, he means it.

\--

“I don’t understand what you’re so upset about,” Zuko grits out.

They make it into one of the cosier palace tearooms, favoured by Uncle and used for informal meetings before the argument breaks out. Toph pats his arm before the enter as if to say _good luck_. Aang and Sokka have made themselves at home on the thick cushions in a very deliberate display of _staying out of the way._

If Katara was a firebender, she would have been _steaming_. Instead, the temperature of the room drops a few notable degrees. Ice crawls up the windows even though Agni is high in the sky.

“I’m upset,” she snaps, “because you’ve nearly been _assassinated_. And we had to find out from _gossip_ that the Firelord had been shot. During _an Agni Kai._ ”

“It’s not as if he _succeeded_ ,” Zuko says, the candles in the room rising higher with his temper. “Besides, it’s not like this is the first time this has happened.”

“Oh, there’s been more?” Katara says, tone acidic and it takes him a moment to realise what a horrible mistake he’s made. _Oh no,_ he thinks.

“Not _that_ many,” he jumps to correct. “Only— about a dozen, I think? Mostly if someone wanted to kill me, they just challenged me to an Agni Kai. And Uncle is drafting laws against unfounded challenges now, so it’s fine. Really. And this is only time I’ve _actually_ been shot.”

Katara stares at him for a long moment. A long, long moment. Zuko shifts from foot to foot and realises he’s not made _anything_ better. “You—” her voice shakes and breaks off. The room floods back to its normal temperature. “—You are such an _idiot._ ”

And well—

That’s probably fair. He smiles awkwardly and then Katara is hugging him, clutching him tightly as if to make sure that he’s still alive. He thinks they might both be crying. The other continue to stay very deliberately _uninvolved_.

“I worry about you,” she says into his shoulder. “I don’t want to lose you, Zuko.”

And—

A lot of people have been saying that recently. He’s starting to believe them. “You won’t,” he promises. He’s surprised to find he means that too.

(She insists on healing his shoulder later, popping the cork on her waterskin. The glowing water feels good against his skin as it knits the ruined flesh back together.

“It’s going to leave a scar,” Katara says quietly, hands falling away from his shoulder.

She’s not crying again, but it’s close. He says, “It’s okay. It’ll remind me not to get shot again.”

And Katara laughs a laugh that’s closer to a sob and says something like _Tui and La, you had better not._ )

\--

The servants have prepared rooms for them, but when night falls, they all plough into his bedroom, carrying as many blankets as they can hold. They set them out on the floor under Sokka’s direction, chatting and laughing and making his too-large room feel full of life.

His heart strains with how much he _missed_ them when they fall asleep like that, in a tangled mess curled around him _because sleeping next to a firebender is like sleeping next to a heat-pack_. Toph is using his stomach as a pillow, lying on her back, knees bent so that her feet are still flat on the ground. Aang is snoring, curled into his side and Sokka has both of legs tossed over Zuko’s. Katara is lying with her head against Aang, strands of dark hair falling in her face.

His heart strains and he wonders, _how_ , under Agni’s rays, he had managed to convince himself that he could have hated them. How he convinced himself they hated him.

(He never even _told_ them when his birthday was, he realises later and the warm feeling in his chest glows like Agni himself.

This is why he has to survive, he thinks with sudden clarity. For them, if for nothing else.

Slowly, he’s picking up the pieces of himself.)

\--

“I’m going to Hira'a,” he tells Toph the next morning. “To look for my mom.”

There’s a long moment of silence before a slow grin spreads across her face. “Sparky, are you offering me a life changing field trip?”

“I don’t know about life-changing, but yeah. Sure,” he says, rubbing the back of neck awkwardly, “If you want to come with me.”

“What kind of question _is_ that?” Toph demands, “ _Obviously_ , I’m coming with you.”

( _Thank you,_ he doesn’t say, but Toph punches him arm affectionately as if she heard him anyway.)

\--

They find his mom in Hira'a.

They find her and she looks happier than she ever did in the palace. Her dark hair is threaded with grey and tied back in a casual topknot with loose strands framing her face, her skin more tanned and sprinkled with freckles from time under Agni’s rays. There are crinkles around her golden eyes from smiling. And Zuko wants to be angry with her, wants to be angry at her for leaving him, for leaving Azula, when he notices it’s the first time that he’s seen her wearing short sleeves.

Around her wrist is a faded, flaming handprint. A near match for the one on his face. His anger dies on his tongue.

They find his mom in Hira'a and the first thing she does is take him into her arms like he’s a child and hold him tight, whispering _my son, my son, my son_ into his hair. She’s crying, leaving a damp patch on his shoulder and shaking like a leaf.

He wants to be angry and just as quickly, he doesn’t.

( _Later_ , he thinks. The difficult conversations will come _later_.)

She takes them both back to her house— a small thing compared to the palace, but with a small garden out the front, lush and green. Zuko recognises some of the herbs as ones he’d prepared with Ayumi. When they’re both sat down with tea to rival Uncle Iroh’s, she tells them about the ultimatum Ozai offered her that night when he was eleven years old and waiting for his father to murder him in his bed, convinced that this was when he was going to die.

( _After my father is dead, if you step one foot back in the capital,_ Ozai had said with razor calmness, _I’ll kill Azula. And then I’ll kill Zuko. I might even kill that healer that’s always fawning over you, and I’ll make you watch. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll disappear._

And Ursa did. Agni, help her, she had disappeared and left her children to that _monster_ but not a day went by when she wished she had found another way.)

“I hate him,” Toph says furiously. “I wish Aang had done worse to him.”

The venom in Toph’s voice starts a laugh out of Ursa despite the shaking of her hands, and she looks so painfully like Azula that his heart clenches. Zuko reaches out to hold her trembling hand in his.

“I’m just glad that you’re alive,” he says, and finds that he means it, “I’m— I thought you were _dead_.”

(There’s still more left unsaid, still so much unspoken between them, but there’ll be time later. When he’s ready. She says as much at the door on the way out, with a tearful smile and a careful hug.

And then she says, hesitantly, “If you see Ayumi, tell her— tell her I’m sorry. And that, it’s another lifetime if she’ll still have me.”)

\--

In another lifetime, Ayumi had dreamt of running away with Ursa.

In this one, she does.

\--

Against all odds, it’s his birthday.

Zuko rises with the sun, carefully picking his way out of the warm pile of bodies surrounding him and slips out his bedroom. 

He takes a detour through the kitchens to swipe some stale bread and goes to feed the turtle-ducks under Agni’s first rays. The sun feels warm on his skin. He rips of a chunk of the crust and watches it float in the water, before one of the turtle-ducklings claims it.

Somehow, he’s made it to seventeen.

Zuko laughs quietly and thinks that he just might make it after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRSTLY, I need you all to know that there's a scrapped scene for this chapter where iroh shows up to the meeting w/ the earth kingdom dignitaries with a stack of Zuko’s papers and he’s all “so you want to take a 10% cut of fire nation land in reparations :) that sounds FUN :) why don’t you tell me more :)” and the Earth Kingdom collectively LOSE THEIR SHIT, but it just wouldn't fit into the chapter :(
> 
> SECONDLY, thank you all so much for reading this fic!! every comment, kudos and hit has made me so ridiculously, stupidly happy, it's the first proper thing that I've written and it makes me smile to know that ppl have actually enjoyed it. so thank you, I'd never have finished it without you <3
> 
> see you next time ;))) <3
> 
> UPDATE: okay I'm actually writing part three JUST so you can have the scene w/ Uncle in context so hopefully!! that should be up in the next week (?) so keep an eye out if you're interested in that (and, maybe some more Ursa POV too ;))
> 
> also come find me on tumblr!! @npcshosty <3


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